Dicky’s eyes closed as Matthew spun on his heels and walked quickly down the road. The sheriff started calling for help as soon as he got to within twenty feet of the show house and, within minutes, Dicky was passed out on the kitchen table while the people by his side studied O’Reilly’s knife, pondering the best way to remove it from the young man’s neck.
~
Patrick Donnelly swept everything off his desk in rage and shouted, “Goddammit to hell, Freddie! How could you let this happen?”
Fred Marston bowed his head, silently. He knew his boss was just letting off steam but he couldn’t help but resent the histrionics. After all, Dan had been Fred’s best friend for almost as long as he could remember; he could hardly believe that old Danny Boy was actually gone and knew he would see that third eye drilled into the center of his good friend’s forehead all his living days.
But Patrick was like a sick bull, rampaging around his small office, tearing pictures off the walls, and kicking out at anything his feet could reach. He had always let anger take the place of fear, sorrow and uncertainty and—for the most part—that anger had kept them in good stead through hard times. Now, though, Fred just wanted to cry for his loss.
He clenched his fists as an ink blotter flew through the air, almost hitting him on the ear. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Honestly, Patrick, I didn’t think you would want us shooting into a whole herd of Chinks and that’s what woulda happened if we hadn’t stood down!” He paused for a moment, then asked, “What are we gonna do, boss?”
Fred’s question seemed to briefly quell Patrick’s fury and he sat down at his desk with a huff. Reaching inside one of the drawers, he pulled out a bottle of good scotch and two glasses. Pouring a drink for both of them, he gave one to Fred and lifted his own in a toast.
“To Danny Boy!” he said and drained the scotch in one gulp, immediately pouring another.
Fred followed suit and the two men sat in silence for a moment. Then Patrick said, “We get even, that’s what we’re gonna do.”
Fred smiled and nodded his head in agreement. “I know where the kid’s at. And that prick, Matthew Wilcox, too!”
Patrick stared at the flames that licked the front of the woodstove and murmured, “We have to do this right, though, and not let our emotions get in the way of good business.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. Business…it’s always business with Patrick and the devil take the hindmost, he thought.
As if he had heard the words, Patrick glanced his way. “Freddie, you know I loved Dan, too. But we have to attend the auction first. Surely you can see that. From the sound of things, that kid is probably already dead and will never utter a word against you or me. We’ll sell off those little twats, make a load of cash, and then we’ll hunt down that sheriff and shut his mouth permanently, too.”
Donnelly swallowed the rest of his drink and stood up. “And while we’re at it, we’ll rob him of someone dear, just like he done to us. We’ll make sure that person suffers, just like Danny did and make certain, before we kill him, that Wilcox feels the loss just as keenly as we do now.”
Fred Marston smiled.
Chapter 26
Magic Potions
Matthew knelt at the head of the table by Dicky’s head and Iris sat on the young man’s chest; the doctor took a deep breath, grabbing the knife by the hilt.
“Now remember,” he murmured, “blood is going to gush when I pull this blade out…lots of blood. In a way, that’s for the best since we need to drain this wound of infection. Too much, though, and Dicky will bleed to death. So, when I say bear down, do it quickly. This boy’s life depends on what we do in the next few minutes.”
Dicky had woken up long enough to take a stiff shot of whiskey and a few drops of laudanum. He gazed up at Matthew’s beautiful wife and wondered if he had already died and gone to heaven, such was the angelic vision perched over him. He heard someone say, “Ready?” and saw the angel nod, then his eyes flew open in agony.
Dr. Winters pulled the knife straight up and out. Both Matthew and Iris pounced, pushing the flesh forward and pressing down against the blood that welled up out of the two-inch gash. Lewis threw the offending weapon into the corner and Muriel rushed forward with a washbasin filled with soapy water and another bowl filled with herb-soaked compresses.
Matthew and Iris winced at the foul-smelling concoction but knew that Lewis was quite adept at using herbs to cure his patients. Iris asked Muriel what was in this particular batch and she replied, “Many of these things are new to me but I do know there’s vinegar, charcoal, honey, Cat’s Claw, dandelion and chamomile in this batch. One of the newer things Lewis is trying is moldy bread which sounds terrible, I know, but seems to work wonders.”
The doctor pressed the wet cloths to the injury and opened the lips of the gash, letting blood ooze out and pushing more of his medicine into the deep cut with a long, bulb-ended tube. Then he smeared a brownish paste, which brought tears to the eye with its astringent fumes, around the wound. Glancing up at his sister, Lewis said, “You can get down now, Iris. You’re squashing the kid.”
Iris blushed and scrambled down off the table into her husband’s arms. They watched as Dr. Winters continued to clean the area and finally, after applying more paste, bandaged it and gave the patient a shot of morphine.
Dicky gazed up at the doctor and tried to speak but Lewis said, “Don’t try to speak right now, son. Listen, can you move your fingers for me?”
Dicky frowned and concentrated. After a moment, they saw him move his thumb and fingers. The doctor smiled and said, “Very good. Now how about your toes?”
There was the slightest motion in his right foot and then the young man closed his eyes in exhaustion. Dr. Winters took Dicky’s hand and whispered, “Just close your eyes now and let the medicine do its work.”
Dicky was already asleep, though, and Lewis stepped toward the kitchen sink with a sigh. “That could have gone worse, you know,” he said. “There are so many arteries and nerves in the neck area, just pulling out the knife could have killed him. Also, I could have severed the nerves in his spine which he needs in order to walk.” He shook his head. “Luckily, I think the blade came out without doing permanent damage.”
He scrubbed his hands briskly and dried them on a stack of clean, cotton bandages. Then he turned and stared at his brother-in-law. Lewis was still angry over Matthew’s high-handedness but grateful nonetheless at how hard the young sheriff was working to find Amelia.
Putting his resentment aside, he continued, “The real risk now, of course, is infection. That blade was filthy and it went deep. I tried to wash out the area as much as possible but puncture wounds are the most difficult to treat.”
Looking at his patient, Lewis added, “Dicky is a healthy young man though. With proper care—and luck—he will pull out of this.”
Matthew smiled. “Thank you very much. I am so glad you were here to help. This kid has had it rough and I want him to have a place by my side…if he recovers.”
Lewis nodded. “Well, time will tell. In the meanwhile, why don’t you help me get him into a nice soft, bed? He needs rest more than anything.”
Matthew picked up the deputy and walked down the hallway toward the small room that had been set aside for him and Roy. Placing Dicky on the bed and noting the pallor in the young man’s cheeks, he sent up a silent prayer. Remembering the boy who had died during the altercation, Matthew fervently hoped that Dicky would not follow that path.
Iris’s father had wept when he heard the news and swore that Peter would have a proper burial rather than be planted in “Potter’s Field”. Wondering if the two men Gerald Winters had sent to find the body were successful, Matthew again hoped those men would not be found out by Donnelly’s ruffians and suffer the same terrible fate.
Leaving the doctor and his wife behind with their ointments and salves, he went back to the kitchen area and heard a violin squawk downstairs as the actors warmed up for tonight’s performan
ce. Glancing at his pocket watch, Matthew saw the hour was growing late and what little daylight remained was succumbing to winter’s early dusk.
Stepping into the kitchen, he saw Iris at the woodstove putting clams, potatoes and onions into a large pot. Turning around, she smiled. “I pray Dicky pulls through, Mattie.”
Sitting down at the table, he said, “Me, too. He is a good kid.”
Iris wiped her hands clean with a towel and asked, “And how is your wound?”
He had almost forgotten about it over the last few hours. “It’s good, really! Your brother is a fine doctor.”
She nodded and then a frown marred her expression. “Mattie, are you serious about going to that auction tomorrow…alone?”
“Well, Roy will be with me. But, yes, I am.”
Iris bowed her head. She did not want to quarrel with her husband but her heart was filling with ice and a premonition of doom. “Mattie, I don’t want you to go!” she blurted.
Matthew frowned in consternation. It was not like Iris to question his decisions or to act squeamish when it came time to get things done. It was especially disconcerting now as the prize in this endeavor was her own niece. He took her hand in his.
“Iris, from what I’ve been able to gather, these sorts of auctions are pretty high-class. There’s a lot of money at stake and, often, the men who gather to do the bidding are considered “the elite”. He shrugged at her exclamation of disgust.
“I know,” he agreed. “There is nothing classy about what they are doing but, in this case, money speaks volumes and your brother has given me a lot of money. If it’s not enough, you and I can add to the pot. So I truly believe Roy and I can waltz in there and buy Amelia’s freedom without firing a shot.”
Iris sat up straight. “But what about the other girls, Matthew? Will you just leave them behind?”
Matthew flushed. “I don’t plan on leaving anyone behind!” he snapped. “But, first things first, don’t you agree? We get Amelia out of there and away from harm. Then, she can stand as proof—and a witness—against the Donnelly’s!” He glared at his wife for a moment as he struggled with his own frustrations.
“I am sorry I wasn’t able to remedy this situation sooner,” he added. “But the Donnelly’s have proven to be tough customers. I simply need more help to bring their enterprise down.”
Iris stared at her husband, then stood up and rushed to his side. Falling on her knees, she grasped his hand in hers and said, “Mattie, I am so sorry! Honestly, I didn’t mean my words to come out the way they did!” She kissed his knuckles. “It’s just that I have such a bad feeling…a feeling that something horrible is going to happen, even if you DO manage to buy Amelia back!” Tears filled her large brown eyes from both the fear she felt and the hurt she saw on her husband’s face.
Matthew’s expression softened and he pulled his wife into his arms. “I understand, Iris,” he murmured. “Patrick Donnelly seems willing to do just about anything to get what he wants. Fortunately, I think what he wants right now is a good payoff for those girls, plain and simple.”
Iris shook her head. “But Dicky told us he killed one of Donnelly’s closest friends! Maybe I’m wrong, Mattie, but he seems like the sort of man who would seek revenge.”
Matthew drew back and looked his wife in the eyes. “That’s why Roy and I are going in disguise, dear. The make-up artists here will color my hair, shave off my mustache and put me in fancy clothes so I look like landed gentry. They are planning to alter Roy’s appearance as well.” He gave her arms a little squeeze. “We’ll be fine. Just a couple of rich strangers who trade in the flesh market.”
Iris hugged her husband once more as she wiped away her tears. Walking to the stove, she stirred the clam chowder that was starting to fill the room with fragrant steam.
Matthew watched her for a few moments and said, “It’s a little early yet, but I’m heading down to the livery to pick up our horses for transport back home to Granville. I also need to telegraph the sheriff in Gold Bar and have him send the mule back home by train.” He added, “That dang old beast is as ornery as they come but he belongs to our department and my bosses won’t take kindly to the loss of him.”
“Is there someone around here who can go with you?” Iris asked.
Matthew nodded. “Yes. Your father is sending one of his drivers with me, along with one of his best stagehands. I hear that both men are handy with a gun although I sincerely doubt that Donnelly will do anything tonight about what happened.” He put on his hat and walked over to the stove where Iris stood.
Giving her a hug, he murmured, “I could be wrong, Iris. And because of that, I will use extreme caution. Still, I believe that most of Donnelly’s energy will be spent on getting the girls he kidnapped ready to sell tomorrow.”
Matthew kissed her cheek and stepped away. Winking, he grinned. “I’ll be back soon with Roy. And, like I said, I am feeling so much better.”
Iris returned his grin and said, “I plan to test that assertion, husband, just as soon as you return.”
~
Two men stood in the shadows across the street from the opera house and the little theater next to it. They were well hidden from prying eyes and lost in the masses as carriage after carriage pulled up in front of the playhouse, disgorging gaily-clad patrons.
The vendors were hard at work, selling popped corn, hard candies, ale and oranges from their stalls. Earl Dickson’s practiced eye also saw busy pickpockets lifting watches, coin purses and wallets away from the crowd of rubes milling around in front of the theater.
Ignoring the familiar sight, he kept focused on the alleyway to the side of the building. He had been to a couple of shows in the past and knew it was also the stage entrance as well as the actors’ way in and out of their quarters located upstairs.
Dickson gritted his teeth. Donnelly had somehow found out that he was Margaret’s opium supplier. He had experienced a few sweaty moments when he was first confronted and honestly thought Patrick was going to make good on his threats and have him shot.
Only genuine contrition on his part and the promise to work for no wages for the next year stilled Donnelly’s hand. That and the fact Earl had the presence of mind to follow the Chink parade—and the wounded deputy—back to this very same spot. Seattle was a big place, big enough for that Dicky kid to have gotten lost for good and his boss was grateful for Earl’s quick thinking.
Now he was back in good standing with Donnelly and—along with Fred Marston—he watched as a carriage emerged from the alleyway. Two men sat on the front bench and Marston grunted with malicious delight.
“There he is…that dirty, low-down bastard Matthew Wilcox,” he hissed. “That lawman has been a thorn in our side since we left Wenatchee and, by God, I would like to put an end to his miserable existence right now!”
Fred actually had his pistol out and was aiming at the carriage when Earl put a restraining hand on his arm. “Not here and not now!” he snarled. “There are too many witnesses, Freddie.”
Marston lowered the gun. “Gawd-dammit, you’re right. Better wait for orders, I guess.”
The carriage moved slowly into the street, weaving through the crowds. Then it picked up speed and was lost to the darkness. Earl sighed with relief. That was too close for comfort and he wished again that Dan O’Reilly was the one standing by his side rather than the hothead Marston.
“Come on. Let’s go tell the boss we found what he’s looking for.” He stepped away and Freddie soon followed.
Chapter 27
Bizarre Bazaar
Late in the afternoon the next day, the rented carriage moved slowly down the road toward Chinatown. Fog swirled and danced ahead of them, pooling under the gaslights. Vague shapes darted here and there in the mist, causing the matched pair of roans to shudder and snort with tension. The driver soothed them with a whisper, his soft Irish lilt submerged under a harsher accent, one melodious and foreign.
The resplendent coach pulled to a stop i
n front of a weathered door with a green dragon painted on its peeling surface. The men who stood in the shadows chatting, smoking, and placing side bets on tonight’s auction stopped what they were doing and watched as three passengers disembarked from the fancy conveyance.
They studied one man in particular who was quite tall with bronze-colored skin, long black hair and mustaches. He wore a dark gray derby, an eye-patch and a wool suit; his embroidered vest made many who watched fairly drool with envy as did his knee-length kid boots. With leather buttons from toe to mid-calf, his shoes spoke of wealth as most of the men in attendance knew it required at least two servants to secure the wearer into such elaborate footwear.
The aristocrat was accompanied by two Mideastern men wearing desert caftans and colorful head scarves; one of them carried a valise no doubt filled with cash, and the other appeared to be the bookkeeper clutching a sheaf of papers in his arms.
The bystanders grinned in anticipation. This ought to be good, they thought as the sheik’s men had arrived a little while ago, a scruffy lot that didn’t look even half as rich as these newcomers.
The lesser players in this passion play had seen it all before. Princes from the far eastern deserts would compete against one another, betting fortunes beyond imagining in order to best one royal house over the other. Sometimes—depending upon the merchandise—the bids for new female slaves came in hot and heavy, far outpacing the value of the goods on display. The side bets grew exponentially and many of the spectators who stood about in the fog rushed to the door in order to watch the action up close.
Matthew, Roy and Gerald stepped inside the painted door and found themselves in a tiny shop. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with jars and pots took up the back wall. A waist-high counter separated the customers from the stock and a small Chinese man hurried out from behind it, bowing profusely.
“Ah so, you men come for auction, yes?” he squeaked.
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